


someday at christmas

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/F, Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-18 16:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: Clarke and Lexa have a random encounter on Christmas Eve.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> POV alternates between Clarke and Lexa at each break.
> 
> *title from Andra Day + Stevie Wonder duet "Someday at Christmas"

“Please. Do not get drunk,” Abby warns at the front door while Lincoln and Clarke bundle into their hats and winter coats. “Your Nana will be here tomorrow, and I would rather my children not be incapacitated with hangovers on Christmas morning.”

“Relax, Mom. I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve seen Lincoln drunk.”

Abby arches an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t talking specifically to Lincoln.”

Clarke rolls her eyes as Lincoln chuckles and pokes her in the arm, a charming retrospective of their teenage selves. The precocious and daring younger sister to Lincoln’s leveled pragmatism as Clarke’s dependable older brother.

“I’m an associate professor at a private art institute and have lived on my own for almost a decade. I think I know how to drink responsibly, Mom.”

“Keep an eye on her, Lincoln,” Abby sighs, kissing Lincoln’s stubbled cheek as he leans down for a brief hug. She mirrors the affection with Clarke, who only tenses moderately before reaching for the door handle and yanking it open. “Have fun,” Abby calls after them. “Call your dad if you need a ride home.”

Lincoln waves as Clarke trudges down the gravel driveway towards the car, boots crunching on the snow and breath freezing in the night air.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks once they’ve latched their seatbelts.

Lincoln begins reversing down the driveway, bracing a hand against Clarke’s headrest as he swivels his head. “You say that as if I still live here.”

“You’re in Philly so, geographically closer to home. Besides, don’t pretend like you don’t visit constantly.”

“It’s my duty as the favorite child,” Lincoln smirks, slowing to turn from one, narrow country road onto another. “We can’t all be elitist New York City art professors.”

Clarke swats his upper arm, smiling as she says, “Jackass.”  

Her gaze wanders across the landscape as the sun sets on centuries-old farmhouses of stone and mortar, silhouetting the silos and barns. Just before dusk, this part of the state is a rural, understated beauty. The sky is streaked in cool, gradient blues and greys, the warmer pinks and golden yellows of a fading sun having dipped below the vast farm land’s snowy hills. It’s not an unfamiliar landscape but one that perpetually fades from Clarke’s memory during the months she spends amid bright lights and heavy traffic in a city that never seems to rest. Berks County couldn’t be further removed from her life in Brooklyn, though it still feels like coming home. The living room of her parents’ farmhouse with its bursting warmth from a crackling fire. The quaint and cozy furnishings, bedecked with twinkling lights, the four knit stockings, and a plump Christmas tree. There’s no place Clarke would rather spend the holidays.

“Where did we go last year?” Clarke asks, breaking the silence.

“JJ’s, wasn’t it?”

“Oh god,” Clarke groans with a laugh. “What a low point.”

“What about Pop’s Tavern?” Lincoln suggests.

Holiday tradition demands that Clarke and Lincoln escape the confines of their familial obligations on Christmas Eve to drink cheap beer at local, divey bars. The origins were more covert—slipping out of windows or creaky back doors; stealing their parents’ car keys to rendezvous at friends’ houses; or, hijacking Jake and Abby’s booze to get drunk in the attic by themselves. With age and maturity, they now leave through the front door and pay for their own alcohol like responsible adults. A part of Clarke misses the thrill of escaping a family gathering with her big brother to share stolen peppermint schnapps in a musty attic. What’s important, though, is that they’re together, reunited again after too many months apart.

“Sounds perfect,” Clarke beams, reaching for the dial to crank the heat.

:::

Lexa is bundled in a bulky knit sweater and wool socks at one end of the sofa. She’s wearing at least three layers and cannot get warm. The temperatures here are comparable to home, and Anya has apparently learned to maintain rather impressively built fires if the one currently crackling in front of her is any indication. Still, Lexa shivers—a bone chill she can’t shake coursing under her skin even beneath all her winter clothes. She blames the drafty farmhouse and all the open space. The blasts of winter wind are clearly more effective here as they easily cut across the sweeping expanse of empty cornfields and frozen cow pastures. Skyscrapers and brownstones serve as insulants against the cold—not to mention the sheer number of people cohabiting on one island—making New York feel much warmer by comparison. Anya’s closest neighbor is over a mile away, and yet their house is still visible from the front porch. Lexa isn’t sure how one adjusts to so much breathing room.

“You look pathetic.” Anya throws another log into the fireplace before returning to her chair.

Lexa clenches her jaw and adjusts the hat she’s still wearing. “I’m freezing. Is this your only source of heat?”

Anya launches a knit cotton throw at Lexa from across the room that lands on her head. “Let’s have a drink before we go out. That will warm you up.”

“I came here to see you,” Lexa scowls at the blanket, nevertheless draping it over her legs which she’s pulled up close to her chest. “Why would we go out to be around other people?”  

“I told you not to come.” Anya sits opposite in the only other piece of furniture in the room—a wingback chair that Lexa recognizes as having belonged to Anya’s mother. “But because you are continuously an insolent scourge on my otherwise enjoyable life, I’m forced to entertain you while you’re here. I have very little food and not nearly enough alcohol.”

They are cousins by blood but friends and confidants by choice. Until now, Anya has never lived more than three city blocks away, and is, without question, the most important person in Lexa’s life. She is also a massive pain in the ass, who abruptly left the city not twelve months ago on very little notice.

“I didn’t want you to be alone during the holidays,” Lexa says evenly, not broaching the subject that she knows they are both avoiding.

“No,” Anya directs an accusatory finger in Lexa’s direction. “ _You_ didn’t want to be alone for the holidays. You left your mother—”

“She’s with grandmother, and she's been ... better.” Lexa argues before a tense silence settles over them.  

“I actually prefer the solitude,” Anya finally says, the bite to her tone having softened.

Lexa sighs, casting her eyes around the nearly empty house. It is quiet and still, the pop and crackle of logs on the fire resounding in the silence. “Yes, I’ve noticed.” There is no thrum of life outside the windows here—no city trucks, no screaming sirens, no passing throngs of hurried pedestrians. The sky is a darkening mass above stretches of land that run for miles, uninterrupted in all directions. A thought occurs to her as her ears practically ring from the lack of sound. “How do you even sleep here?”     

Anya stands suddenly, crossing the room in two swift strides to shove Lexa’s head against the couch in annoyance. “I sleep fine. Let’s go.”

:::

“We should have gone back to JJ’s,” Clarke bemoans, sulking into her drink as her eyes scan the empty bar.

The tavern has always been a relatively sad establishment, cobbled together with faux wood paneling that peels at its edges and worn, blue carpet marked with unsightly brown stains. On Christmas Eve, it is particularly morose. Clarke had been hoping for interactions with quirky locals and a jukebox full of outdated top forty pop music or whiny country western. At the very least, she’d expected a meagre sampling of the simple folk from her small town—distant faces from high school or former coworkers of her parents. The bar is dead, and despite Lincoln’s enjoyable company, Clarke is painfully bored. Even the overplayed Christmas music can’t lift her spirits.

“Stop sulking,” Lincoln chides. “Do you want to see the girl I’m dating?”

Clarke perks up instantly, grabbing at the air between them in a gesture of impatience for Lincoln’s phone. “Duh. Gimme.” Lincoln quickly taps across the screen before handing the phone over to her. Clarke gawks for several seconds and then scowls. “Oh fuck you, she is so hot.”

“Sure, Clarke,” Lincoln sighs. “Of course, she’s also putting herself through grad school and is one of the strongest, most determined and intelligent women I’ve ever met.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, acquiescing. “Okay, fine. She also looks incredibly brilliant. Obviously.”

Lincoln always was the more exemplary feminist of the two of them, but she can’t help her knee jerk objectification of pretty girls. And this girl is very, very pretty.

Lincoln grins down at the photo when he takes back his phone while Clarke smiles around another sip of her drink. “She is gorgeous though, isn’t she?” he says.

“Uh, yeah,” Clarke laughs. “Understatement.”

“Octavia,” Lincoln offers, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Ugh, even her name is hot.”

“Clarke …”

“And smart. An educated and intelligent-sounding name,” Clarke corrects. “How long have you been dating?”

“A month or so. It’s new, but … good.”

Clarke smiles genuinely, happy for her big, sappy brother. “Bring her to New York on your next visit. You guys can have the apartment for the weekend, and I’ll go stay with Raven or Wells.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Lincoln raises his massive palm across the table, prompting Clarke for a hi-five. It reminds her of being kids again and makes her laugh. “What about you? Sharing a city with over 8.5 million people and no dating prospects?”

“I’m honestly too busy with work most of the time to notice how pathetic my social life is.”

“Wow,” Lincoln sighs. “You are even more lame than I remember.” Clarke’s foot hits his shin under the table, and Lincoln’s soft laughter follows. “Maybe it’s time for you to move back to Philly.”

Jake and Abby Griffin had started their family in Philadelphia where they met while Abby completed her residency. They adopted Lincoln after years of battling infertility complications, and Clarke’s adoption followed a few years later. They remained in the city until her thirteenth birthday when starting a private medical practice in a small town seemed preferable to city life.

“Sure, that’ll fix things.”

“Or, maybe you just needed to come home to meet someone.”

Clarke has a dubious retort on her tongue when she sees Lincoln jut his chin towards the front door, and she rotates her head. Two women have just entered, signaling the sleepy bartender with the brass jingle bells that are hung on the doorframe. The women are dressed in dark colors, one in a leather jacket and the other in a wool peacoat, both in jeans and leather boots. They have sharp, stunning features—angled jawlines and severe eyes. Clarke’s brow ticks up unintentionally.

_Well, at least now she’s got something to look at._

Clarke can’t place it, but something about them doesn’t fit into this reclusive landscape of paint-peeled barns and antiquated taverns. Her gaze lingers until one of them looks in her direction, a prolonged beat of eye contact that flushes her cheeks, and Clarke realizes she’s been staring. Maybe Lincoln has a point, though she’d never admit it.

What she says is, “The last thing I need is to meet someone who lives three hours away in the middle of a cornfield. My life is not conducive to a long-distance relationship.”

Clarke and Lincoln are sat at a round high-top table adjacent to the bar counter, but the women approach two corner seats of the empty bar and slide onto rickety-looking wooden stools.

“If you say so,” Lincoln says, his grin saying otherwise as he finishes off his first beer and slides the empty pint glass to Clarke’s side of the table. “Order us another round?”  

Clarke slides from her stool with an eyeroll. “What are you drinking?”

“Surprise me.”

“Oh, I will,” Clarke threatens. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

“Good,” Lincoln smiles. “Because I wasn’t being subtle.”

“I’m not going to strike up conversation with them just because we’re apparently the only four people in Berks County so desperate for alcohol that we ended up at Pop’s fucking Tavern.”

“Fine. Then why don’t you strike up a conversation because you’ve already been thinking about seeing at least one of them naked.”

“I’m—what—Linc, _gross_. Why would you—” Clarke sputters, feeling the heat of embarrassment crawl up the back of her neck.    

Lincoln gently, if also condescendingly, pats the top of her head. “Your tells are so obvious, Clarke.”

“Piece of advice: do not tell people you think you’re capable of deducing that about your sister,” Clarke shudders with a look of disgust, carrying Lincoln’s empty glass back to the bar where she finishes the last sips of her watered down gin and tonic.

:::

Lexa’s stomach twists uncomfortably with a spike of unexpected nerves. There’s absolutely no way this has followed her across state lines—what Anya has inaccurately called a _borderline infatuation_ , but what Lexa knows is nothing more than a passing interest. There’s no way she’s here, in this depressingly barren watering hole, and yet the resemblance is undeniable. If Lexa were being honest, she’d admit to first recognizing that smile—the one the woman down the length of the bar is now offering to the bartender—followed quickly by the bouncing blonde curls and blue eyes. It cannot be her, except it is most definitely her.

She registers a sharp pain in her left hand and flinches, looking down to see Anya stabbing the flesh between her tendons with a toothpick. “Ow, what the hell.”

“For someone who claims to have come here for my sake alone, you’re fairly distracted by other people.” Anya watches with mild interest as the woman waits on her drinks, making pleasantries with the old man behind the bar, and Lexa swallows. “Or, just one person, actually.”

“I am not distracted.” The gaudy, overplayed Christmas music is just loud enough in the empty bar to veil their conversation, but Lexa shoots a wary glance down the bar anyway. “You weren’t even speaking to me.”

Anya swirls her glass lazily against the bar top, and watches the ice clink around as it circles the glass. “I chose not to direct any scintillating conversation towards the side of your distracted head.”

“I am not—”

“Are blondes your thing now?” Anya narrows her eyes contemplatively while Lexa fights to maintain her look of neutral disinterest.

“No. I don’t have a type. You know that.” She does, of course, have a type. And it’s standing not four yards off, propped casually against the bar counter and making faces of childish annoyance at a large, attractive man sitting alone who is pretending not to notice.

“Just because you’ll date anything on legs, doesn’t mean I can’t tell when something’s peaked your interest. You’re remarkably transparent.”

“I’m incredibly selective,” Lexa argues.

“Yes. A pretty blonde with a nice rack. How original.”

“Jesus, it’s not that, Anya. She’s actually—”

“Anyway, I thought you had it bad for coffeeshop girl.” Anya sips at her whiskey then clicks her tongue as if savoring the taste. “What happened there?”  

Lexa takes a fortifying breath and squares herself in Anya’s direction. “Right. About that …”

:::

Lincoln’s face sours, and Clarke is so delighted she almost claps. She’s opted for a draft pour—something light and nondescript—but, per Lincoln’s instructions, has surprised him with a concoction of alcohol that shouldn’t be consumed beyond one’s twenty-first birthday, if ever.

“Did you seriously order me a Long Island Iced Tea? You do realize I’m your ride home, right?”  

“Maybe I’ll get a ride home from someone else,” Clarke challenges, arching an eyebrow over the rim of her glass.

Lincoln coughs into the back of his hand, sliding his drink away from him in disgust. “Given the amount of unveiled interest at the bar just now, I’d say that’s a fair possibility.”

“Are you talking about the bartender? Because—gross, Linc. He’s older than Dad.” Clarke scrunches her face around a swallow of beer.

“Not the bartender, dummy, I’m talking about Ms. Peacoat at the end of the bar, who couldn’t take her eyes off of you. Jesus, no wonder you’re not dating anyone being this oblivious.”

Clarke’s head whips around towards the bar even as she is actively denying Lincoln’s observation. “No way.” She gestures a hand in the direction of the two at the bar where the woman who had been wearing a green peacoat is now fully turned away from her, engaged in conversation with the other woman. “She’s _clearly_ not interested. They’re probably together, or more likely not into women at all.”

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” Lincoln observes, forgetting momentarily about his drink and taking another sip. His face cringes immediately, and Clarke laughs. “Twenty bucks says they’re related. And, at least one of them dates women.”

“We’re placing bets on actual people now?”

Lincoln shrugs, stealing a sip from Clarke’s beer. “There’s no jukebox here. What else am I going to do with this cash burning a hole through my pocket?”

“Okay, sure. Logical.” Clarke takes back her pint glass with a scowl. “What’s your brilliant strategy for confirming our assumptions then?”

Clarke is halfway through a sip of beer when Lincoln hops up from his stool with a dangerous grin. “We go ask.”

“Wait— _no_!” Clarke chokes, too slow to snag the sleeve of Lincoln’s shirt as he makes his way to the bar.  

:::

The barstool behind her creaks, and Lexa stops talking abruptly to turn her head. The man with broad shoulders and kind eyes is now sitting two stools away, making unguarded eye contact.

“Hi,” he smiles easily.

“Hello,” Lexa answers, swiveling in her stool so that she is no longer looking over her shoulder at him.

The bar counter is L-shaped, and Lexa and Anya have taken up the short side so that the man still smiling warmly at them is perpendicular, his elbows leant on the chipped wood bar surface. “I don’t mean to interrupt—”

“Then don’t.”

Lexa’s boot meets swiftly with Anya’s ankle at her sharp retort, a subtle kick beneath the edge of the bar that Anya doesn’t acknowledge. “You’ve interrupted nothing, I assure you.”

“I’m Lincoln, by the way.”

The man extends his hand, which Lexa accepts. “Lexa.” She slips her hand from Lincoln’s gentle grasp and gestures to Anya. “My cousin: the Grinch.”

Curiously, this makes Lincoln laugh extensively, his gaze drifting toward the table where he once sat while slapping a hand against the bar counter.

“You’re here with …” Lexa prompts, seeking her drink like a safety net while Lincoln returns his attention to her.

“My antisocial kid sister,” he grins, his head bobbing in the direction of the only other person in the bar besides the staff. “Clarke.”

 _Clarke_. Lexa nods curtly, then tries for something more casually observant as the new information settles over her. _Her name is Clarke_.

Lexa tries not to make assumptions in general, but particularly about people, who are always more complex than the reduction of her own perceptions. Still, two attractive people of a similar age sitting in a bar on Christmas Eve had given her pause. She had certainly wondered, perhaps even dreaded the potential relationship between these two; but Lincoln has clarified it as familial. Lexa is not above admitting that she is relieved to have just met Clarke’s brother instead of her fiancé.

:::

Clarke is watching, horrified, from the corner of her eye as Lincoln continues to engage with the women at the bar, incidentally charming them no doubt. She will not play accomplice to his intrusive machinations for the sake of a bet, no matter how innocent. No matter her own curiosities about these women.

She’s nearing the end of her pint, debating how she might flag down the bartender to order another without having to approach the bar, when someone noiselessly slides into the stool vacated by Lincoln.

“Hi.” It’s the woman with the peacoat, which she has since draped over the back of her stool at the bar and is now wearing a thick grey sweater. Her green eyes have taken on flecks of the same color, and Clarke tries not to stare as the woman clears her throat and curbs a smile. “Your brother claims you're being antisocial.”

“I prefer well-mannered and respectful of others’ privacy,” Clarke corrects. “I can only apologize for him. He was exposed to lead paint as a child.” She finishes her beer and the woman across from her fights harder to control what Clarke suspects is a lovely smile.

“He’s now manipulated my cousin into a game of foosball.”

“Oh god,” Clarke groans, only now noticing that Lincoln has moved into a small game room off the main bar. “Did he annoy her until she agreed to play?”

“Worse. He complimented her.” The woman smirks at Clarke’s confusion, but offers no further explanation. “Can I get you another beer, Clarke?”

Clarke is stunned for half a second—partly from having her name on the lips of someone she’s never met, and partly for the way it’s said. A soft precision that has Clarke’s lips quirking upwards. It suddenly feels like people have been mispronouncing her name for her entire life, which is ridiculous. Clarke blames the gin and cheap beer. “I can’t let you buy me a drink. I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh, I wasn’t planning to pay—you have a tab at the bar, right?”

Clarke flushes hot with embarrassment, scrambling to retract her mistaken assumption. “Oh no, I didn’t—I’m sorry, I just—”

The smile she receives is, in fact, extremely lovely. “That was a joke. And, my name is Lexa.”

Clarke scowls a heavy frown, threatened only slightly by an urge to mirror Lexa’s lingering smile. “Okay well, _Lexa_ , now you’re definitely buying me a drink,” Clarke announces, jumping down from her stool and heading to the still-empty bar counter.         

:::

Lexa has to bite down on her lip to keep from grinning too fully as she follows Clarke to the bar where she’s left her drink. There was always every possibility that the woman who frequents her favorite coffee shop would be insufferably dull, or particularly annoying. Beautiful, but otherwise unattractive. Lexa had never really prepared herself for those endlessly pessimistic outcomes, and now, after a mere ninety-minute interaction, is bolstered with confidence that Clarke is neither dull nor insufferable.

“What are you drinking?” Lexa asks, reclaiming her seat at the bar while Clarke climbs onto the stool to her left. They sit at the corner of the bar counter, a right angle perfect for conversation.

“I’m all over the map,” Clarke laughs through an exhale, running a hand through her hair as she examines the limited taps and rows of liquor bottles behind the bar.

“Recipe for a hangover on Christmas.”

Clarke gives her a look. It is a very good look even if Lexa suspects what follows will be an insult at her expense. “Now you sound like my mom.”

Lexa shifts in her seat, smiling into the dark liquid in her glass. “She sounds like an intelligent woman.”

“Fine. Be pragmatic. I’ll have another gin and tonic.”

After she’s ordered Clarke’s drink, Lexa loses the thread of their easy banter and feels a jolt of awkwardness creep under her skin. She drums her fingers against her cocktail glass then opens her mouth to restart their conversation. What comes out instead is, “The juniper comprises nearly 70 different species ranging from tropical climates to the Arctic.” Lexa clears her throat, swallows. “An exceptionally versatile species.”

Clarke, who has since received her drink, takes a long sip while her eyebrows raise. “Oh-kay.”

Lexa nods towards Clarke’s drink. “Juniper berries are responsible for for the primary flavor profiles in—”

“Gin. Yeah, I got the correlation,” Clarke smiles, setting her glass back onto the bar. “I just wasn’t expecting you to spout off like a Wikipedia page.”

“ _Wikipedia_?” Lexa scoffs. “That’s pretty offensive.”

“Okay then,” Clarke laughs. “You have a … tree fetish?”

Lexa’s eyes narrow, her mouth a forced thin line—a difficult feat in the presence of Clarke’s laughter. “Yes. That’s obviously the next logical conclusion.”

“Do you just want to tell me? Because I could keep guessing.”

“I have a degree in environmental and sustainability management.”

Clarke looks impressed for at least a breath before smirking and reaching for her drink. “So, tree fetish wasn’t _that_ far off.” Lexa’s face further hardens until Clarke pokes an index finger against the back of her hand, and Lexa goes stock still at the brief contact. “I’m kidding. That’s really impressive. What sort of work does this part of the state offer with that kind of education?” 

“Oh,” Lexa clears her throat, realizing they’ve managed to sidestep a major topic of conversation. “I’m not—I don’t live here.”

Clarke almost seems as if she were expecting this answer, and for a brief moment Lexa wonders if she’s made the connection. “Where do you live? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m visiting from New York, actually. I live in Brooklyn.”

“You’re joking!” Clarke gapes through a smile, blue eyes brightened by her surprise. “I live in Brooklyn!”

Lexa hopes it’s not deceitful to feign ignorance, if only momentarily. “I’m in Clinton Hill.”

Clarke’s mouth falls open impossibly wider. “I’m in Prospect Heights, but I _work_ in Clinton Hill.”

“Do you?” Lexa asks, honestly piqued by the new information. She’d never known what repeatedly brought Clarke to the same coffee shop (other than their exceptional roasts and decadent pastries), but always assumed it was close to home for her, not to work. She thinks of Clarke laboring over stacks of paperwork at the small cafe tables, hauling massive black leather portfolios, and sometimes wearing paint-splattered shoes. She can’t believe she never made the connection. “Oh, do you work for Pratt?”

Clarke’s delighted surprise instantly darkens to halting suspicion, and Lexa momentarily stops breathing, realizing her mistake. She’d deduced Clarke’s employment based on its proximity to the coffee shop which she and Clarke both frequent, almost daily. Of course Clarke hasn’t spent the last six months noticing Lexa’s small quirks, waiting to see her smile as she orders her coffee, or gathering the nerve to finally make conversation. That has been Lexa’s pathetic ritual. She drums her fingers against the bartop and releases a breath, prepared to come clean.   

:::

“How did you know that?” Clarke finally manages. She doesn’t find Lexa threatening in the least, and yet in the age of online sociopaths, her defenses are nevertheless on high alert.  

“There’s this coffee shop. On Myrtle.” Lexa shifts in her seat, giving Clarke fleeting eye contact. “Across from that taqueria?”

“Yeah, I know—I’m there, like, every day.” It clicks for her then, and Clarke asks, “Is that your coffee spot too?”

Lexa nods, looking somewhat relieved. “Yes, I’m there very regularly. I’ve seen you there … occasionally.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never noticed you there before!”

“I keep to myself,” Lexa shrugs.

“Still, you’re very—” Clarke stops short, realizing too late that her mouth has run away from her. She resigns to a laugh, even as Lexa’s eyebrow arches with interest. “Noticeable.”

Lexa appears to enjoy the compliment, her expression pleased as she looks down into her drink with a flush on her high cheekbones. “Maybe out here, in an empty bar. New York makes it easy to walk around with blinders on, letting things sort of blur around you.”

She’s right, of course. Clarke has been in New York for almost six years, and has learned to live her life in a perpetual state of oblivion. Despite knowing she’s essentially overlooked this woman on multiple occasions, Clarke struggles to believe that Lexa could ever be a smudged existence in someone’s background. Beyond her face, which is stunning, Lexa has a presence.

“So, we live in adjoining neighborhoods, we have the same great taste in coffee, and I’m only meeting you here now in _bumfuck_ Pennsylvania?” Clarke shakes her head incredulously. “That’s outrageous.”

“That’s mostly on me, actually.”

“What—how so?”

Lexa almost demurs, folding in on herself slightly before exhaling a short laugh and meeting Clarke’s eye. “To be honest, I’d seen you plenty of times, but I’m … completely useless around beautiful women.”

It’s an unexpected compliment that has Clarke thrown entirely off balance while her cheeks burn and her voice struggles to respond. “Um, okay so, Pratt though. How the hell did you know that?”

“Lucky guess, honestly.”

“Jesus—good guess.”  

“I wasn’t sure, but the shop is close to campus. You’re sometimes hefting very large art portfolios.”

“Wow. Someone’s been paying attention,” Clarke says, still reeling from this wildly random encounter.  

Lexa reaches for her drink, forgetting it’s empty, but clearly looking for something to do other than meet Clarke’s eye while she fights off a crawling blush. She settles for tapping the bottom edge of her rocks glass against the bar a few times before looking up. She swallows once before saying, “You’re very noticeable.”

:::

Clarke laughs again, likely a product of embarrassment from Lexa’s brash flattery, but it is no less lovely than her laughs of outright enjoyment. Lexa watches her eyes scan the area before catching the bartender’s attention, contemplating how she might get Clarke to touch her hand again. The man approaches, a slow shuffle down the length of the bar from where he’s been sat at the far end reading the newspaper.

“What are you drinking?” Clarke asks. “This one’s on me.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Lexa tries.

“After a line like that? I kind of do,” Clarke smirks.

Lexa bites her lip, holding Clarke’s eye. “I essentially just stole your line.”

“That’s a good point,” Clarke laughs, shifting in her seat to face Lexa more fully.

Lexa’s stomach lurches at Clarke’s proximity, at her bright laughter. Her hand twitches against the countertop where it rests within inches of Clarke’s, and Lexa wonders if she doesn’t need another drink after all.

“Did you girls need something?”

Lexa starts at the man’s voice, and Clarke jumps to respond, apparently having forgotten she summoned him. “Yes, um, she’ll have another …”

“Black Russian,” Lexa supplies.

“You can put that on my tab,” Clarke tells him, angling back towards Lexa as the bartender turns away.

“So, are you a professor there?”

“At Pratt?” Clarke clarifies and Lexa nods. “Associate professor,” she amends with a shrug. “But I feel very fortunate.”   

“That must be a lot of work.”

“It is,” Clarke nods. “Not without its rewards, though.” She shakes her head through another incredulous laugh. “I seriously cannot believe this.”

“Believe me, I know,” Lexa exhales, accepting her drink as the bartender slides it toward her.

Clarke eyes her skeptically for moment, sipping at her drink. “You didn’t, like, weirdly orchestrate this whole thing, right?”

“No!” Lexa urges with wide eyes, shaking her head emphatically even when she thinks Clarke might be joking. “No, I almost tripped over a chair when I saw you here.”

At this, Clarke’s suspicions turn to bright laughter. “Very smooth.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks for coming over to say hi.”

Lexa’s answering grin cannot be lessened even as she tries to bite the inside of her cheek. “Finally.”

“Seriously,” Clarke laughs, her foot knocking softly against Lexa’s boot. “Way to be dramatic about it.”

:::

Lincoln and Anya rejoin them at some point during their next drink, but not before Clarke learns that, despite Lexa working for the NYC Parks Department, issuing Clarke an open container permit to drink wine in Prospect Park is disappointingly outside of her jurisdiction.

Lexa grew up in New York and has never been to the top of the Empire State Building.

Lexa loves the city in every season except during the summer months when “the pungent aroma is too harsh a reminder of just how many people with questionable hygiene exist in a relatively small space.”

Lexa has an apartment in Clinton Hill but currently splits her time between Brooklyn and Queens where her mother—who raised Lexa on her own—is still grieving the recent loss of her sister and often spends days on the sofa, refusing to eat.

“That’s why Anya ended up here?” Clarke’s voice has softened in sympathy, she and Lexa leaned toward one another across the bar as the conversation had moved away from surface topics.

Lexa nods. “Yes. And it’s why she refuses to come back. It’s been over a year, but losing her mother has been … more difficult than she lets on.”

Anya is certainly the definition of stoicism. She had returned to the bar only briefly to order another drink at one point, and Lexa’s introductions between them had been one of the more awkward interactions of Clarke’s life. Reticent and withholding, Clarke can see how someone like Anya might never allow herself to be pummeled by grief and loss.

“Why here?”

“Dilapidated farmhouses in rural Pennsylvania were apparently in her price range,” Lexa answers dryly. “She said she needed space. And she craves solitude, neither of which is in abundance where we grew up.”

“Right,” Clarke sighs, imagining Lexa dealing with the loss of her aunt and, in a lot of ways, Anya too. “I’m sorry, that’s a lot—” Clarke stops speaking, a breath caught in her throat when Lexa’s hand rests gently on her knee beneath the bar.

Lincoln plops into the stool beside her while Anya finds her seat at Lexa’s other side, and Clarke exhales as Lexa’s hand slides back to her own lap. They share a rueful smile, abruptly ripped from a conversation that had stretched seamlessly for almost two hours without interruption. Clarke wants more time, more stories, more shy smiles. She wants more.

“We should be getting back,” Lincoln says, reliably the responsible sibling, though with a tinge of regret.

Clarke hates that he’s right, but an Abby Griffin scorned is no way to celebrate Christmas. If they stay out too late, they'll never hear the end of it. “I know,” she sighs, still feeling the warmth of Lexa’s hand where it had been on her knee. “If you start the car, I’ll settle up our tab.”

Lexa watches her with interest, some silent struggle warring in her eyes. She seems ready to speak when Lincoln hops up from his stool and places his hands onto Clarke’s shoulders. “Cool. Do you two need a ride? I stopped drinking awhile ago.”

“I’m fine to drive,” Lexa answers, even as Clarke had started to fantasize about cramming into the backseat of Lincoln’s hatchback with Lexa pressed up against her side, and the notion of her hand somehow landing back onto her leg. “Thank you, Lincoln.”

“No problem,” he answers, heading for the table where he’d left his coat and hat. “I’ll meet you in the car, buddy.” Clarke throws him a wave as the front door jingles.

“We should do the same,” Lexa suggests. She tilts her head slightly in Anya’s direction. “I’m sure the temperature has dropped several degrees since we arrived. Starting the car now will help with any frost accumulation.”

Clarke watches Anya’s steady gaze take on a quality of subtle amusement as it slides from her cousin to Clarke and back. Perhaps the drinks have relaxed her stiff demeanor, even by fractions, because Anya’s mouth twitches at one corner as she jingles the car keys from her leather coat pocket.

“Has this night not given you cause to be more direct, Cousin?” Anya taunts as Lexa crosses her arms defensively. Anya stands from her stool and lightly shoves the side of her head. “If you wanted more time alone with Clarke to finally make your move, you should have just said so.”

:::

Clarke is laughing, obviously delighted by Anya’s teasing, and Lexa is struggling to maintain an affronted scowl while the sound rings in her ears, tipped red from embarrassment.

“It was nice meeting you, Anya,” Clarke says as her laughter tapers off, Lexa still refusing to turn around fully and face her.  

Anya nods once in response, as much a warm farewell as she’s capable. Before she’s reached the door of the bar, Clarke has again started to giggle, and Lexa finally turns towards the sound.

“Well, this turned out to be a lot more fun than I’d imagined,” she says.

“Yes, definitely,” Lexa agrees, pinching her lips together when Clarke says nothing in return but continues to look at her with an unguarded smile.

“Can I see your phone for a second?”

Lexa feels her nerves return, a rapid pulse in her chest as she reaches into her coat pocket with a wide smile. “Only if you promise to put your number in it.”

Clarke barks a laugh, accepting the phone as Lexa hands it over. “I cannot believe it took you this long to talk to me with lines like that in your locker.”

“I promise you, I’m incredibly awkward ninety percent of the time and tonight has been a massive anomaly.”

“Sure, if you say so.” Clarke returns the phone to Lexa’s palm, her fingers lightly brushing the skin. Lexa’s breathing slows and she swallows past a lump of tension in her throat, scrambling for the right words to end their night.

What she says is, “I want to keep talking with you.”

“So, call me,” Clarke grins.

“Okay. I will.”  

“Let me know when you’re back in the city,” Clarke says. “We can grab a coffee or something.”

“Yeah,” Lexa smiles. “I know a really great spot.”

Clarke returns her bright smile. “Cool.”

There’s a hug near Lincoln’s car, expectedly awkward and cut short by the freezing temperatures, but nevertheless an embrace that has Lexa tamping down her smile the entire drive back to the house.

:::

It’s just past eleven when Clarke and Lincoln pull into the driveway, but their parents have always been night owls and greet them at the front door, barely masking that parental relief at seeing them home safe and sound. Abby is still pulling together her prep for Christmas dinner, and Jake offers to make them all nightcaps.

“Okay, but do I text her or wait for her to text me once we get back home?”  

Lincoln rolls his eyes good-naturedly with the fond exasperation of an older sibling. “You should stop overthinking it.”

Jake Griffin shuffles into the room carrying three glasses of eggnog and a sly grin. “Don’t tell your mom, but I added an extra shot of brandy when she wasn’t looking.”

“Oh, thank god, I need it,” Clarke says, eagerly taking one of the glasses from her father.

“You just spent the better part of the night at a bar—what could you possibly be stressed about?” Jake says, offering a drink to Lincoln before finding his old recliner and sitting with a contented sigh.

“Her new _girlfriend_ , probably,” Lincoln teases, receiving a kick to his leg from Clarke who’s lounging on the other end of the sofa.  “Oh, speaking of which, you owe me twenty dollars.” Clarke flips him off. 

“Don’t attack your brother,” Jake chides lightly.

“His muscle mass alone is literally impenetrable to pain,” Clarke argues.

“Now what about a girl?”

“Nothing,” Clarke quickly responds, threatening Lincoln’s silence with a harsh look.

Lincoln grins, unbothered. “All I'm saying is, good thing you didn’t go home with her—Mom would have killed you if weren’t here to help with Christmas dinner.”

“Oh right, like Mom isn't the most controlling perfectionist who consistently refuses assistance of any kind.”

It’s Lincoln who now retaliates against Clarke, flicking her foot with a stern finger and sending a disapproving grimace down the sofa. She harbors no ill will towards her mother, yet they have never been exceptionally close. Lovingly civil, perhaps, since adolescence. Some might say they are too similar—too fiercely headstrong, stubborn, defiant—to ever be compatible; though Clarke would very quickly disagree.

“I’m saying she’s independent and precise—it was a compliment!” Clarke argues.

“I’m glad you met a friend, honey,” Jake smiles.

“Thanks, Dad,” Clarke beams, always pleased with affection from her doting father.

“Now, go ask your mom if she needs any help with her prep for tomorrow.”

Clarke’s smile drops to a concentrated frown, eyes narrowed at Jake’s satisfied grin. “Traitor.”

She rises from the couch anyway, drink in hand, and heads for the kitchen as her fuzzy socks creak along the wide, worn pine flooring of her parents’ old farmhouse. On the way, she reaches into her back pocket for her phone.  

:::

In front of the fire, overstuffed on pizza and spiked eggnog, Lexa’s phone buzzes from the coffee table. She smiles down at text from Clarke that reads:

_I really hope you don’t wait as long to kiss me as you did to say hi._

  
  


 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Is this a totally lame first date? Just … meeting at the same shop that we visit regularly, drinking the same coffee that we always drink?” Clarke cringes, squinting her eyes in Lexa’s direction as they wait on their drinks at the end of a dark stone countertop. “It’s totally lame, isn’t it?”

Lexa shakes her head very seriously for all that she is also trying not to smile too broadly. “Oh, I’m not drinking the same coffee as I usually do.”

A barista presents Lexa with a standard drip coffee as Clarke confirms skeptically, “You’re not?”

“Nope. This is significantly different coffee. This is _date_ coffee.” Clarke laughs at Lexa’s earnest inflection, feeling herself relax as they wait on Clarke’s drink. Lexa does smile then, something small and shy. “And, this is definitely a good first date.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, blushing at the gleam in Lexa’s eyes. “Good.” She clears her throat and wraps her hands around the white paper cup of her own coffee when it arrives, its warmth spreading instantly even through her fingerless gloves. “Well, just in case it _had_ turned out to be a—um, you know, if it seemed like it was, uh—”  

“A totally lame date?” Lexa smirks, blatantly enjoying Clarke’s nerves.

Clarke has walked through the door of this coffee shop at least a hundred times, never giving much thought to her arrival beyond how much time she’s left herself to get to work. Today, standing in front of Lexa again, her heart beats erratically, and she has a sense of mild anxiety that leaves her short of breath. The cheeky text she’d sent on Christmas Eve had sufficiently opened the lines of communication, and they’ve been texting regularly ever since. Flirting over text feels lik a walk in the park compared to seeing Lexa’s face again. She had waited less than forty-eight hours to call, suggesting they meet on the first Saturday that they would both be back in the city. But even Lexa’s eager interest to see her can’t calm Clarke’s nerves.

She exhales, grasping for composure and heading towards a nearby cart stocked with sweetners, lids, and milk. “Yes. Exactly. So anyway, I sort of planned a second location for us just in case.”

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Clarke focuses on securing the plastic lid onto her cup instead of the pretty girl beside her, willing her nerves to settle. “Do you wanna take a walk with me?”

A smile breaks across Lexa’s face that Clarke wants to photograph. “Sure.”

:::

“You know,” Lexa begins as they exit the shop, “being taken to a second location is typically a red flag indicating nefarious crimes are afoot. You’re not planning to torture and maim me or take me hostage, are you?”

Lexa looks over at the sound of Clarke’s laugh, muffled only slightly by her huge scarf—mustard yellow plaid and wrapped several hundred times around her neck and chin. She pulls the scarf down just enough to speak clearly. “Why do I get the feeling that would be an unfair fight?”

Lexa feels light and playful for the first time in ages. She loves being back in New York. She loves walking these familiar, trash-cluttered streets with dingy snowbanks and too many people. She loves that Clarke is one of those people, now walking beside her. “Do I strike you as particularly violent?”

“Violent, no. Possessing unsuspecting strength and agility? Yes.” Clarke seems to assess her for a moment, sidelong and amused while Lexa is distracted by the bright blue of her eyes in the mid-morning sun. “You probably teach self-defense classes, don’t you?”

Lexa laughs as they pause at a crosswalk, waiting for traffic. “A friend of mine does. It’s a service we offer through the Parks, actually.” A thought occurs then, and Lexa turns to face Clarke more fully. “Have you never taken a class on self-defense?”

“Um, no.”

Lexa feels a sudden, rising panic. “Clarke, it’s important that you learn to defend yourself. Anya was once mugged three times in one year.”

“Oh my god, that’s terrible,” Clarke gawks. “Do any of her attackers still have use of their legs?”

Lexa tenses her jaw. She is starting to get the sense that there is very little that Clarke takes seriously. Lexa’s worry for her safety momentarily subsides at Clarke’s sarcasm, and Lexa follows her across the slushy street.

“Anya learned to take care of herself.”

“Anya is scary as fuck.”

Lexa smiles, anticipating the joy this will bring to her cousin when she shares Clarke’s candid opinion. “She will enjoy hearing your first impression of her.”

“I’m not saying I’m _afraid_ of her,” Clarke clarifies. “I just … wouldn’t mess with her in a darkened alley.”

“Sure,” Lexa grins, catching Clarke’s eye. “I’ll be sure to mention the distinction.”

They make a right turn onto a much less busy street, and Clarke asks, “Do you get to talk with her very often?”

“Every day,” Lexa sighs. “In some form or other.”

“That’s good. Better than nothing?” Clarke hedges.

“Yes. It’s been an adjustment, but Anya has always been very aware of her own limitations and tends to push beyond them, more often than not. That she isn’t able to remain in New York due to her—” Lexa swallows. “It speaks volumes to her pain.” She looks up from the sidewalk to find so much open empathy in Clarke’s eyes, she realizes she’s said far too much for a first date, and abruptly shifts topics if only to get Clarke to stop looking at her like that. “Anyway, you really ought to take a class in self-defense. They are offered all over the city, and they’re very often free.”

Clarke laughs as they turn down yet another street, all of her soft concern quickly vanquished by a bright smile. “Okay, fine. I’ll agree to take a class if you’ll come with me.”

The caveat catches Lexa by surprise, and she has to suppress a stutter as she responds with a broad smile. “Sure.” Buoyed by Clarke’s breezy offer of another meeting and her lingering smile, Lexa's playfulness returns. “Second date?”

Clarke laughs again, this time nudging her shoulder into Lexa’s as they come to a stop in front of one of Pratt’s beautiful, historic, red brick buildings. “Sounds great.”

:::

Lexa examines the building at Clarke’s back. “You brought me to work?”

Clarke pauses at the base of the stairs, craning her neck at the arched windows of the building behind her. “Uh, yeah. Sort of.” She shifts her feet in the salt and snow, grasping her coffee cup with both hands. “It’s like a ghost town right now with everyone on break, so I thought it could be kind of nice to walk around. Plus, there’s something I was going to show you.”

“I’d love to see where you work, Clarke.” Lexa’s soft tone coupled by her unguarded interest washes away the rest of Clarke’s insecurities as she turns to lead them inside. A burst of warm air rushes them as Clarke keys through the interior doors, and she starts to unravel her scarf.

“Have you ever been in here?” Clarke asks, her voice echoing through all the open space and high ceilings of South Hall.

Lexa’s gaze wanders, climbing the frosted windows and scanning the artwork hung in the foyer. “I’ve been to a few public gallery exhibitions hosted here but never to this building specifically. It’s really beautiful.”

“It’s really old and drafty, too,” Clarke says, leading them towards a broad staircase off to one side. “But, I suppose that’s the price of maintaining historic structures for the sake of education.” They climb the stairs silently, Lexa a step behind her until Clarke reaches the third floor landing and Lexa rejoins her side.

“So, the art thing—is that a family trait?” Lexa asks, following Clarke down a wide hallway cast in shadows.

Clarke pauses outside room 306 in search of her key. “My dad and I are pretty big art geeks, yeah. I prefer paints and brushes, and he’s always been more of a craftsman—fine woodworking, furniture making, that sort of thing.” She unlocks the door with a soft click, pushing inside a small office with two desks, a spare easel turned on its side, collections of leather portfolios leaned against a wall, and one, tiny window pushing filtered sunlight into the room.

She turns to face Lexa’s raised eyebrows, appraising the space. “Your office?”

“Mine and one of the visiting instructors. All of the permanent staff share office space with the rotating professors who come through each term.”

“Sounds like a nice system. I think I would enjoy having a different officemate every once in awhile.”

“It is,” Clarke agrees, setting her coffee down onto her mostly organized desk and unzipping her coat. “I’ve gotten to know some amazing artists from all over the world simply by sharing this  negligible office space.” They share a meager smile, Lexa’s hip coming to lean against the edge of Clarke’s desk. Clarke is again confronted with just how little square feet her office comprises when she watches Lexa’s eyes stray from her own, drifting downward to her mouth. She moistens her lips self-consciously as her pulse thrums, heat rising to her earlobes. She clears her throat and looks away. “Anyway, I thought we could, um, leave our coats and stuff in here before going into the studio.”

“Okay,” Lexa answers, eyes blinking as if coming out of a long, dazed thought.

Clarke exits the cramped confines of her office, and the cooler air of the third floor corridor soothes her scorched cheeks. Lexa has obviously considered kissing her, if not before then certainly within the past twenty minutes. She’s thought about it too, within multiple scenarios. Her drive back into the city after Christmas almost felt like one, long, sappy daydream. Clarke is perfectly capable of being charming and flirtatious with any number of interested men or women, but something about the reality of having Lexa’s mouth against her own has her feeling half her age in nervous anticipation.

“It’s just down this way,” Clarke says, pushing past her ridiculously shaky voice and hoping Lexa hasn’t noticed.

Lexa’s biggest draw, Clarke has decided, is her understated grace despite an air of mild insecurity and inexperience. Lexa claims incompetence with women yet exudes a quiet confidence that often leaves Clarke reeling. There is nothing unsure about the way Lexa’s hand—warm and soft and calloused in places—calmly slips into Clarke’s as she asks, “What about Lincoln? Does he also work within the arts?”   

Clarke doesn’t trip over her own feet, but only because she is concentrating very hard.

:::

It’s an innocent gesture that, to Lexa, feels incredibly bold. Clarke returns her grasp almost immediately, tightening their fingers together, but it doesn’t help slow her racing heartbeat. After a few steps in awkward silence, Lexa wonders if she should phrase her question again. Perhaps Clarke hadn’t heard her properly, or perhaps she hadn’t actually spoken the question aloud—distracted as she was by making the valiant move of an adolescent.           

“He doesn’t,” Clarke says, smiling over at her now with rosy cheeks. “Lincoln followed in my mom’s footsteps, actually.”

“Your mother is a physician,” Lexa recites, recalling their text exchanges over the past several days that had covered a growing list of facts about Clarke that she now has stowed safely away.

“A pediatrician, yeah. Lincoln works for Children’s Hospital in Philly, which is where my mom did her residence. _And_ he graduated from her alma mater like a total suck-up,” Clarke gripes goodnaturedly.

“It’s really too bad you and your brother don’t get along,” Lexa smirks.

Clarke squeezes her hand. “Tragic, isn’t it?”  

They walk incredibly slowly, their feet landing so softly against the old tiled floors they hardly make any sound. “You’re closer with your father,” Lexa surmises.

Clarke sighs, and Lexa feels her shrug from where their hands are linked. “We just … get each other on a very basic level, and we always have. I think our brains work in similar patterns. My mom—she tends to speak in a language I don’t understand.”

“Albanian?”

Lexa stumbles to the side when Clarke bumps their shoulders together while tightening her grip on Lexa’s hand to keep her from drifting too far. She laughs at the push and pull, falling back into step just as Clarke stops outside another closed door with a tempered glass window. She fishes her keys out of a pocket with the hand that isn’t still holding Lexa’s and opens the door. Clarke flips a set of four switches on the wall, and the room floods with overhead light. The studio is long and wide, a giant expanse of open space with an entire wall of windows that provide ample sunshine on such a clear day.

“So, this is where the magic happens,” Lexa says, eyes scanning the room even as her feet stay rooted near the door.

Clarke’s laughter is more of a sigh. “In theory, yes.” She moves to the left, bringing Lexa with her by a soft tug of her hand. Lexa would like to be led through the city this way, tethered to Clarke indefinitely. “These are their final projects. My freshman babies,” she sighs fondly. “They aren’t required to produce gallery exhibitions during their first year, but we like to arrange the studio in a way that still gives them that experience.”

“A never before seen art exhibit,” Lexa says, looking to Clarke.

“From never before seen artists,” she adds.

“This was your idea for a first date?”

Clarke, apprehensive for nothing, traps her lip between her teeth. “Yes?”

“Well,” Lexa exhales, her lips turning up at the corners and eyes again focused on that tempting lower lip that Clarke insists on biting. “I’m going to have to do better than self-defense training for a second date.”

Clarke’s answering laugh echoes through the open room, and Lexa grips her hand a little tighter.

:::

The only thing better than Lexa reaching for her hand the first time is the way she finds it again and again as they wander through the studio. She lets Clarke wank about technique and style, inspiration and expression. She sometimes crowds close or crouches down to examine intricate features that Clarke has highlighted, but always returns to her side with fingers seeking. A small smile and brief glance as they reconnect and weave their fingers back together.

They meander for almost forty-five minutes, Clarke answering Lexa’s thoughtful and intelligent questions about her work, her students, her perceptions of each piece. She could use some food, perhaps another coffee, as the morning stretches into early afternoon.

“What are your plans for the day?” she asks, having finally lost contact with Lexa’s hands as they reenter her office.

Lexa shrugs, eyes never leaving Clarke’s. “This.”  

Clarke nearly chokes on her sip of tepid coffee. She swallows roughly before saying, “Oh.”

“That probably sounds like a I have a really pathetic social calendar, which I do.” Clarke laughs at Lexa’s depreciative honesty. “Seriously, it’s pretty sad. But, today especially … I didn’t want to make any plans beyond hanging out with you.”

Clarke’s heart hammers. She can hear it in her ears—this wild, pumping _thump, thump, thump_. But her smile stretches wide. Something bigger finally outweighs her nerves, and she suddenly feels unbelievably fortunate to have found this person now standing in front of her. Or rather, to have been found by her.

“Good.” She reaches for her coat, slung over the back of a chair beside her desk, then grabs Lexa’s peacoat as well and hands it over. “Because I’m starving.”  

They bundle in silence together, Clarke slipping back into her fingerless gloves and knit hat before finishing the last dregs of her coffee and tossing it into the bin beside her desk. She deposits Lexa’s empty cup as well, ushering her towards the door so that Clarke can lock it behind them.

Back outside of South Hall, in the cold and wind, Lexa squints into the sun. “Where to?”

Clarke considers for half a beat, “How do you feel about burgers and pizza?”

:::

Happily stuffed on wood-fired pizza and cans of dry, currant cider, Lexa holds open the door for Clarke as they exit the cozy pizza shop. The temperatures seem to have shifted again as the sun has already begun to dip behind the tall buildings on its mid-afternoon descent.    

“This was fun,” Clarke says, and Lexa wants to underscore the sentiment by kissing her against the shop’s front window.

They had shared pizza and split a cheeseburger. Their conversation never once lulled, sparking more interest in Clarke than Lexa has felt for someone in years. Clarke is smart and engaging with dry humor and a curiosity to match her own. She wants to know things, loves to read, and isn’t afraid to admit when she’s been wrongly informed. She talked of her school and family, asking after Lexa’s mother without seeming invasive. She’d continued to tease Lexa about her ‘infatuation’ with trees, quizzing her on different species while they waited on their food and pretending to correct all of her Latin pronunciations. Lexa could have stayed in that pizza shop for the next several hours.  

She settles for a smile, reflective of Clarke’s own, and nods a few times as the cold seeps under her collar and curls behind her neck. “Yes,” she agrees, suppressing a shiver as the chill runs down her spine. “I had a great time, and … I would like to see you again.”

They loiter at the storefront, both waiting on cars to take them home. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Clarke asks, stunned, it seems, by her own words as she tries to backtrack. “Or, you know, later in the week.”

“You don’t want to hang out again tomorrow?” Lexa teases. She enjoys teasing Clarke as it so often results in a gentle shove or glancing poke, the brief contact of Clarke’s retaliations.

This time it is Clarke’s honesty that floods Lexa’s chest with warmth. “I _would_ like to see you tomorrow, actually.” She exhales, scanning the busy street for her approaching ride. “But, it’s New Year’s Eve. You probably have parties and obligations and, I don’t know, prior plans that you made months ago to ring in the new year.”

“My friend Murphy throws an end-of-the-world party every year that almost always consists of him cramming too many people into his father’s ostentatious brownstone in the West Village, offering them too much alcohol, and then disappearing at some point before midnight to get laid.”

“Wow. Those are definitely plans.”

“The point is: it’s awful. I generally hate it,” Lexa admits, feeling her phone buzz in the front pocket of her jeans. “I think my car will be here in a second.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll—”

Their rides are approaching, and there’s no time for coy avoidance. Lexa goes for broke. “I would much rather hang out with you instead.”

“Oh, um. I mean—”

“You have plans,” Lexa guesses, deflated.

“No,” Clarke laughs. “No, I usually just play board games and get drunk with my two best friends at my apartment.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You should come,” Clarke offers quickly, squinting a moment later as if considering the merits of her own invitation. “Is that weird? For you to come over and hang out with me and two of my closest friends on the last night of the year?”

A white sedan pulls to the curb, matching the description of Lexa’s scheduled Lyft. “No,” she grins. “That sounds really great.”

“Really?” Another car approaches, pulling in behind Lexa’s, and Clarke checks her phone. “Shit. This is me. Okay, great, so you’re coming.” Her smile falters only slightly as she asks again, “You really want to come over?”

A barrage of doubts suddenly rushes over Lexa, and she swallows with some difficulty. “Unless you don’t want—”  

“No! I do. I definitely want you there,” Clarke smiles, taking a step closer before remembering her waiting car. “Um, I’ll text you the address, okay?”

“Okay.”    

“Thanks for today.” Clarke collides awkwardly in a hug, pulling away too quickly as Lexa is only just wrapping her arms around Clarke’s waist. The moment for first kisses has passed, but even still, Lexa had hoped for something more than another rushed embrace. “You were wrong at Pop’s Tavern, you know,” Clarke says, stepping backwards by a few feet to open the door of her car. “Definitely still noticeable, even in the city.”

Lexa’s face warms. She wishes she had the quick wit for charming comebacks, but she’s left with shy smiles and a small wave before Clarke disappears into the car behind her and closes the door. Lexa slumps into the backseat of her own car, and greets her driver, wondering how long she’ll have to wait for Clarke’s text when her phone buzzes.  

:::

“A swanky party in the West Village and she chose to hang out _here_ instead?” Raven gapes, a glass of sparkling rosé halfway to her mouth. “I hope you’re planning on putting out tonight, Griffin.”

“Please, be civil. And normal.” Clarke paces the kitchen, arranging wine bottles and charcuterie and sleeves of sesame crackers. “You’re going to be nice, and normal, and civil, right?”

Wells props his elbows onto the miniature stretch of counter space beside Raven and crunches into a cracker. “You’ve met us, right?”

The short jut of countertop separates the living room from the kitchen, and Raven and Wells have been posted there since their arrival while Clarke darts around the apartment making final preparations. Turning on low music, putting wine on ice, preparing light hors d'oeuvres. _Christ, she’s turned into her mother._

“Yeah,” Raven echoes. “Are you sure this girl is worthy of our combined awesomeness? And, to be clear,” she holds up a halting hand in Clarke’s direction, “I’m referring to Wells and me—you tend to detract from the sum total of awesome in this friendship.”

“Then why do you hang out with me constantly?” Clarke challenges.

“You usually have really good snacks,” Raven grins, sinking her teeth into a shard of Manchego from the cheeseboard.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Look, Lexa is … amazing.” She knows that her voice, while confident and convincing, has also gone a bit soft. As an image of Lexa surfaces, her lips curve upwards. She clears her throat, pretending not to notice the way Wells and Raven share a sidelong glance with their eyebrows raised.

“You’ve spent a total of how many hours with this chick?” Raven asks.

“I don’t need to spend more time with her to know she’s a good person. She’s smart and funny and we just sort of, I don’t know, clicked. She’s really great.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Raven answers, smirking at Clarke over the rim of her wine glass.

The speakerbox on the wall buzzes harshly, and Clarke practically jumps, just barely managing not to spill her glass of wine. She moves towards the wall in the front entryway and presses her thumb against the button. “Hey, Lexa?”

“Hi.” The speaker crackles, but even the tinny quality can’t lessen Clarke’s reaction to hearing Lexa’s voice again. Just a one-word greeting and a whoosh of air leaves her lungs burning.

“It’s open—come on in.” Clarke presses a second button on the box, and a moment later there is a light knock on her apartment door. First floor living is terribly convenient under most circumstances but doesn’t leave her much time to prepare for Lexa’s arrival. She takes a deep breath and slides her wine glass onto the kitchen counter.    

“Nice and civil,” she reiterates in a harsh whisper, leveling her friends with a foreboding glare  while approaching the door. Wells responds with his big, bright smile and dramatically salutes; Raven tents her fingers together like a conspiring villain, and Clarke hopes for the best.

She opens the door to Lexa’s rosy cheeks and wide, green eyes. Her smile is delicate and the shouldercaps of her peacoat are dusted lightly with snow. “Hi.”

“Hi, come in,” Clarke offers, stepping aside so that Lexa can enter. “Can I take that for you?”

Lexa hoists a bottle of something bubbly. “I hope it’s okay—my bodega was pretty wiped out of anything remotely festive.”

“It’s great. You didn’t have to bring anything at all,” Clarke smiles, finding that she can’t really stop now that Lexa is stood in her apartment a breath away. They stand facing one another in the scant space of Clarke’s entryway for a long minute. A completely unsubtle coughing fit erupts from her kitchen just three feet away, and Clarke shakes her head to clear her dreamy thoughts. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure,” Lexa says and begins to work the buttons.

“You found the place okay?”

“Anya used to live in this neighborhood, actually, so I’m familiar with it.”

“Kindred spirits, her and I,” Clarke grins, and Lexa laughs lightly as she hands over her coat.

Clarke carries the coat and the bottle, leading them into the tiny kitchen area where Raven and Wells remain posted at the counter sipping their drinks. Clarke sets down the bottle and angles herself between her friends and Lexa, who has followed behind her.

“These are my friends Wells and Raven, and this is Lexa,” she introduces, her hand awkwardly floating in the air between them.

“Very nice to meet you both,” Lexa says, her measured decorum laced with equal parts warmth and nerves.

“Hey,” Raven answers to Wells’ more refined and welcoming, “Hello, it’s great to meet you too.”

In an hour’s time, Clarke’s nerves have settled and only partially because they’ve moved on to a second bottle of wine. Wells, an economic major trained in data analysis, is a different brand of geek than Lexa—his freakish number sense to her background in sustainability—yet they seem to speak a similar language that simultaneously warms Clarke’s heart and bores her to death.

She finds herself escaping to the kitchen to refill drinks when Raven backs her into the stove with an index finger to her sternum. “ _Funny_ and _smart_? Did it honestly slip your one-track mind to mention that the girl sitting in your living room is also fucking gorgeous?”

“I’m trying to be a better feminist?” Clarke shrugs.

“A valiant effort, dude, and seriously, Lexa is awesome. But, more importantly, she’s awesome to look at.”

Clarke laughs, shoving Raven away so she can finish opening a new bottle of wine. “Is this the part where I get to say: ‘I told you so?’”

“No. Forget about that. You need to lock it up. I’m serious, Griffin.” Raven shakes her head in disbelief. “A girl that looks like that _and_ speaks ‘Wells’ is for whatever baffling reasons attracted to you? Lock. It. Up.”

“Fuck you,” Clarke grins, refilling her and Lexa’s glasses and sweeping out of the kitchen.

:::

Clarke’s friends are more than pleasant company. Lexa finds her anxieties about spending an evening in close confines with three people she hardly knows have all but vanished. She never doubted that Clarke would befriend wonderful people, based on the little she knows of her, but Raven and Wells are rather exceptional. College classmates, then roommates, and longstanding best friends—they are very notably a close-knit unit.  She finds a nearly instant rapport with Wells, feeling at ease in his company even when Clarke leaves them alone to fetch more drinks. Though, truthfully, Lexa is more than glad when she returns from the kitchen and takes a seat beside her on the loveseat, their legs pressed together from hip to knee.

“Hey,” she says quietly, handing Lexa her drink.

Lexa takes the proffered glass of sparkling pink wine that will most certainly give her a hangover in the morning. “Thank you. Your apartment is very nice, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Clarke smiles, sipping her wine. “Nicer than Anya’s old apartment?”

“Yes. But don’t ever tell her I said that.”

An hour later, Lexa’s arm has slipped behind Clarke’s back, their bodies loose and limp from the wine and their cheeks pink from the controlled heat blasting from the radiator. They’re finishing a game of Clue, Clarke having attempted on several occasions to coerce Lexa into sharing her detective notes because they are sat so closely.

“I better not see any evidence of collusion over there,” Raven warns, eyes never leaving the board as the foursome deliberate.

“Believe me, I’m trying. Lexa refuses to collude,” Clarke scowls.

“Everything above _board_ over here,” Lexa assures, pinching Clarke’s side for good measure, who responds by giggling into her shoulder.

Wells groans, “Horrible pun. I thought I _detected_ a sharper wit in you, Lexa.”

“My apologies,” Lexa answers solemnly. “I do typically employ a higher _caliber_ of humor.”

Clarke and Raven groan in unison, and Lexa shares a satisfied grin with her new friend Wells.

“Okay, everybody shut up,” Raven says, palms hovering over the board game ominously. “I’ve fucking figured it out.”        

Raven does solve it—with Wells nonplussed and Clarke unsurprised—raising her wine glass with a flourish at a quarter after eleven as she reveals the guilty party. Lexa excuses herself to the bathroom, and when she returns the coffee table has been cleared of board game debris and Wells is zipping his coat. She watches him, confused.

Clarke, arms crossed and wearing an expression of supreme skepticism, is questioning Raven as she ties her boots. “Are you serious right now?”

“Clarke, I’m sorry, it totally slipped my mind,” Raven says, without an ounce of remorse. She stands to full height looking more defiant and less apologetic. “Tell her, Wells.”

Lexa’s gaze swings to the man at her left—tall, broad-shouldered, a face of honesty. He gapes like a fish out of water. “Um, yes. We forgot. It was actually a, uh—”

“Last minute invitation,” Raven finishes swiftly, grabbing her coat off the back of a chair and joining Wells by the door. She claps a hand to Lexa’s bicep. “Cool getting to hang with you. I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

“Yes. You too.” Lexa feels herself tilt off-balance as if spun in a circle several times. “Are you leaving?”

“Right, yeah—short notice, and we totally suck, but we double-booked. We’ve got to haul ass back to our building to make an appearance at our neighbor’s party before the ball drops.”

Lexa looks to Clarke where she still lingers between the sofa and coffee table with her arms crossed, looking like she isn’t buying what Raven is quite poorly selling. She shrugs, her mouth a thin line and eyes gleaming with suspicion. Lexa looks to Wells instead. “It was nice meeting you,” she says, relieved to see a genuine smile break over his kind face.

“Definitely. I hope we can hang out again soon.”

“Bye, Clarke, we love you!” Raven calls, bustling Wells out the door and closing it behind them without waiting for Clarke’s response.    

“That was … abrupt.” Lexa slips her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

Clarke moves towards to the kitchen, bringing wine glasses and empty cheese plates with her. “They’re so full of shit.”

“Well, yes, that much was obvious.”

This seems to relax Clarke, who lets her shoulders sag in light laughter as Lexa follows her into the tiny kitchen and leans a hip against the countertop. She watches Clarke deposit the plates and glasses into the sink with a quiet clatter. They’d been listening to a playlist that Clarke had curated specifically for the New Year, but the songs seem to have run out and Lexa’s ears ring in the ensuing silence.

“So, you don’t have to stay,” Clarke says, turning away from the sink to face her but avoiding direct eye contact. “Since my friends jumped ship.”

Lexa shifts on her feet, braces her hands on the counter’s edge. “Do you want me to go?”

Clarke looks at her then, the smallest upward tug to the corner of her mouth as she says, “Not really, no.”

A quiet exhale slips past her lips, the relief in Clarke’s answer overpowered immediately by a fresh wave of nerves. She intends to say something meaningful and sincere—something about the way Clarke makes her feel or the whirlwind course her life has taken since Christmas Eve.

Instead, because being in proximity to beautiful women has always made her incredibly apprehensive, she says, “Should we have another drink?”    

Clarke’s own exhale comes out in an audible rush, “Definitely.”

:::

“I’ll grab our glasses,” Lexa says, and Clarke nods dumbly, her words choked off by the concept of being left alone in her apartment with someone she likes very much.

She thinks she might feel infinitely less anxious if she just kisses Lexa, and resolves to do it at their earliest convenience. There’s been plenty of conversation, and chemistry, gentle touches, and open flirtation. She’s beyond ready, and she thinks Lexa is too. In the time it takes Clarke to formulate a plan, Lexa has restarted the music and lowered its volume.

Clarke can see her reach for their glasses on the coffee table from her vantage point in the kitchen and calls out, “I’ll just bring the bottle in there.” She takes two or three fortifying breaths, grabs the champagne Lexa brought by its foil neck, and marches resolutely back into the living room.

Lexa is still stood beside the couch when Clarke approaches, setting the unopened bottle beside their glasses. She has to look up at Lexa when facing her, her height greater than Clarke’s by at least two inches, and Lexa’s throat bobs when Clarke closes the space between them with one, measured step. She rests a hand on Lexa’s waist, the other toying lightly with her fingers. Lexa’s mouth falls open as if she might speak, but Clarke isn’t sure there’s anything left to say. She moves slowly upwards, giving Lexa every indication of what’s about to happen. In the end, it’s Lexa who bends to her, exhaling shakily against Clarke’s cheek as their lips finally meet.

Their mouths stay softly joined, lips beginning to move slowly as Lexa’s hand slides behind Clarke’s neck and into her hair. She presses their lips together more firmly at the sensation, pulling back when tingles skate down her spine. For a moment they share the same air, breaths exchanged in tandem as their eyes drift open.

“I hope you weren’t planning to wait until midnight,” Clarke says, licking her lips.

Lexa breathes out, an almost laugh. “No, I hate cliches.”

Clarke smiles, hovering closely while keeping her lips just out of reach. “Like meeting cute girls at coffee shops?”

“I’m warming up to that one,” Lexa says, and kisses her again.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The support for this unplanned drabble has been ridiculous and wonderful, and I can't believe I get to write for such an incredible fandom.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses for writing this needless holiday fluff instead of finishing 'a pleasant undoing.' Please forgive me.


End file.
